ii. I have been loved, Edward told the stars.

So? said the stars. What difference does that make when you are all alone now?

—The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane

____

If there’s one thing I don’t understand, it’s how some people can smile so much.

Or, to put it another way, I don’t understand Kim Jongdae.

It’s only a very, very long time later that I understand just a little bit more about those smiles, something that isn’t easy like I used to see it. They’re forced, he has to try to do so, but even then, they’re somehow still genuine.

And that’s what makes him all the more admirable.

***

I hate group projects, and my reasons are the same as most peoples’—I hate it when contribution and leadership lies on the shoulder of one person, and I hate being the person to do it. Given the choice between an individual project and a group one, I’d much rather do it by myself. It’s more stressful, but it also requires less communication and there’s only myself to blame. I’ve learned that only blaming myself saves me a lot of anger on other people.

However, given the fact that this is Languages class, my Korean reading comprehension skills are as good as a middle schooler’s and I’m expected to do so at the twelfth grade level and that it’s Kim Jongdae I’m working with, I have a feeling that I’m going to end up exactly like the people in group projects that I hate.

The bell goes before we can say anything else, and Ms. Lim dismisses the class. She tells us that there will be twenty minutes in the beginning of class do discuss the project, she’ll tell us more about deadlines and expectations afterwards, and that we ought to be working on it in our own time. I bid a quick farewell to Kim Jongdae, saying that we’ll figure it out after, and limp as fast as I can out of the classroom as my injured foot will let me. I wonder if he’ll request to change a group. In fact, he’d probably do better working alone (he’s smart, anyway).

I force myself not to think about it (even though I am; the assigned text isn’t something I’ve even read) and head to my last class.

***

Later on, at dinner, I bring it up to my parents.

It’s a mix of Korean and English spoken at home—my mom’s adamant in keeping her rule of speaking only Korean in the household and upholding that rule even though we’ve been in Korea for two years and if it’s anything that’s degrading, it’s my English, not my Korean, but my dad often lapses into English when I switch. My mother’s keen on correcting both of us, but she can only do so so many times.

“We’re reading a book in Korean class,” I tell my dad in English.

“Anna,” my mother warns.

“What book?” he replies, switching to Korean, then glances up at my mother. “Honey, what did you put in this? It’s so salty.”

She takes a sip of the soup then nearly spits it out. “You’re right,” she mutters, then glances at the stove. “I suppose we can dilute the soup tomorrow so it’s actually drinkable.”

“It’s a group project,” I continue, though they’re still talking about the soup. “Well, partner project. We’ve been paired up with someone random from the class.”

“Who’s the lucky boy? Or girl?”

“His name’s Kim Jongdae. But dad, I seriously don’t know what’s going on. Why can’t you pull me out and put me in an international school?”

My mother, who has headed into the kitchen and dumped her soup down the drain, looks back at me over her shoulder. “Your dad wanted you to get the authentic experience,” she says. “You have to admit, it’s pretty eye-opening.”

“Dad didn’t even go to school in Korea!”

I only get a laugh in response to my misery. My father stands up, pats me on the back and gives me a cheerful smile. “Better get reading, cupcake,” he says in English, then switches and turns to my mother. “Don’t dilute the soup! Just dump it all out!”

***

I don’t talk to Kim Jongdae for another day and a half because we don’t have Languages class and in our other shared classes we sit practically on the opposite sides of the class. Besides, even if I talk to him, I have no idea what I’m supposed to say—about the project? Ms. Lim had said she’d make class time for it, so there’s no point—and we just remain like strangers for the rest of the time. Sohee complains about life being unfair that she ends up with Seo Yujung and I get to go with the smartest kid in the class, but there’s nothing to do about it either.

Thursday rolls around. She begins the class saying that we’ll get together with our partners—for ten minutes, not twenty this time—and Jongdae moves to Chanyeol’s desk so he’s facing me.

“Hey,” he says. “I… don’t know what she wants us to discuss right now, but since we don’t have class time to work on it, I think we can sort out a schedule? I don’t know when you’re busy, but we should at least meet up once a week to work on it.”

“Uh…” I glance at the front of the class, then back to Jongdae. He’s looking straight at me, rather focused, and for some reason, it feels a little bit intimidating. “Right. We should. I’m not free on… Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. I can clear up a day or two to finish, though.”

Jongdae mouths an O. “I have practice on Monday, Tuesday and Thursday,” he said. “But I don’t think a day or two will work. Ms. Lim did say that it’s due in two months—depending on when she puts us for the presentations—and it’s… twenty five percent of the grade? Was it twenty five or thirty?”

I successfully choke on my next breath. “Twenty five,” I croak.

He looks a bit worried at the coughing, but continues speaking. “Yeah,” he says. “Did you… not know?”

I’m going to be that person in the project, I think. Useless and exactly the kind of person I used to hate.

“I thought it was fifteen percent,” I offer, even though I really have no idea of what we’re doing. He doesn’t need to know that yet, I decide.  

Jongdae’s expression is still kind of quizzical, which I absolutely don’t blame him for, but he doesn’t press. Instead, I’m offered another one of those polite, reserved smiles. “I guess we can meet up on… well, I finish practice a bit earlier today, and it’s done thirty minutes before study hall ends? Unless you’re actually going to study hall this time.”

I give him a sheepish wince. “I haven’t been to study hall for three weeks, but I have to get out of the school first. Or else we probably can’t meet, because if they see me at school and I’m not in the assigned room, I’ll get dragged to the office. The school thinks I’m studying to take my diploma and my dad doesn’t care when he gets calls that I missed study hall.”

Jongdae frowns. “Diploma?”

“Long story.”

“Ah.” His eyes wander back to my ankle—the swelling has gone down, though I still haven’t been quite able to make it around without limping—and gestures. “How’s your foot?”

I follow his gaze. “It’s actually healing pretty fast,” I reply, though before I can say anything else, Ms. Lim raps her ruler on the front desk, hard, and everyone snaps back into order.

“Alright,” she calls over the dying chatter of the class. “You have the weekend to come up with a topic, and on Monday, I’ll be posting a list of presentation dates, and whoever has finished finalizing their topic proposal first can choose the date they’d like to present.”

Jongdae doesn’t say another word but slips back into his desk as Chanyeol returns to his too. And so the rest of the class continues on like that, and it’s only when we all leave that I realize that firstly, I don’t have any more classes with Kim Jongdae today and secondly, we haven’t yet agreed to where we’ll be meeting up in the afternoon.

***

I figure that I’ll see Jongdae at school tomorrow, since I can’t find him around anywhere despite searching. The bell rings for study hall, and, figuring it to too risky to stay around any longer, I head for the school gates. We have the weekend; if all else fails, we can figure out a quick proposal on Saturday or Sunday.

What I don’t expect is a figure at the gates, hands tucked in the pockets of a large winter jacket and the grey backpack slung over one shoulder. In fact, I don’t even notice until Jongdae stops me, and it’s then that I realize who he is.

I feel like I’ve just been caught red handed, which, I decide a second later, is ridiculous because I haven’t done anything wrong. “Hi,” I say.

He blinks slightly at my attire. “You’re only… wearing a sweater?”

I look down at my clothes. “Huh?”

“Aren’t you cold?”

It is slightly chilly, though my coat was in my locker and I’d deemed it not worth the effort. “I’m from Canada,” I tell him. “We live with the polar bears. This is nothing.”

His eyebrows furrow a bit more. “There’s polar bears?”

A little embarrassed, I adjust the straps of my backpack. “Not really,” I say. “Well, I’m actually from Alberta and that’s still a distance away from the Arctic. No polar bears there, but it still gets pretty cold in the winters.”

We stand in tense, awkward silence for a bit too long for my preference. I don’t know what t